


The Third Floor

by Slumber



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Future Fic, Magical Accidents, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-21
Updated: 2011-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:14:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26381701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slumber/pseuds/Slumber
Summary: Just a regular day at St. Mungo's.
Collections: 30-minute Writer's Block Challenge





	The Third Floor

"Have you heard?"

"Is it true?"

"Room 305W, yes, Jackie said--"

"Good morning, everyone!"

At the sound of the greeting, the Mediwitches quieted their gossip. Terry Boot was not surprised, and though he was quite curious, he was fairly certain whatever it was they were talking about was undoubtedly incredibly incorrect or tremendously inaccurate. Most gossip usually was, even when it originated from his wing. _Especially_ when it originated from his wing.

"Good morning, Healer Boot."

"How are our patients this morning, Amanda?" he asked, picking up the chart that lay on Reception's desk, left there by the Healer in charge in the shift prior to his. He glanced at it quickly, eyebrow quirking the slightest bit when he caught a familiar name. He wondered if that may have been the cause of the Mediwitches' early morning gossip. He couldn't think of anything else, really.

"All taken care of, Terrence," Mandy Brocklehurst told him. Only he caught the pointed way she used his whole name--payback for the way he insisted on treating her professionally when they were in Healer and Mediwitch robes. He looked up and nearly chuckled at the way the corner of her lip curled the smallest bit. "Mr Weasley is still complaining about the dosage we give him, as is Mr Finch-Fletchley. Maxwell suggested we place both gentlemen in the same ward sometime soon so they may at least find company in each other's misery."

"Which Weasley is that again?" Terry asked. He didn't have the knowledge of wizarding families that most his pureblooded or halfblooded peers did--all his parents knew were Muggle medication. It was the family business, after all, and something of a joke now that he'd decided to continue to Healing school in the magical world.

"George," Mandy said. "The one with the joke shop?"

"Oh, yes, of course. Wasn't he just here last week?"

"He was doing another experiment, he says."

Terry did experiments as well, but they rarely ever got him a trip to St. Mungo's. He was usually very careful, although he supposed prank potions were a vastly different beast from his own branch of study. He wasn't entirely sure the Statute of Secrecy wasn't being violated, but he'd gotten incredibly curious about the possibilities of mixing magical potions with Muggle medication. Mandy, herself a halfblooded witch, had shared that fascination with him and had been helping him in his research since. That she'd helped with many other, shall we say, extracurriculars as well was neither here nor there.

"And this new patient?"

"He's just been admitted, actually."

"Do we know yet what's wrong with him?"

"Well--"

There was a palpable pause, pregnant enough and thick enough with meaning that Terry looked up. All three of the Mediwitches were glancing at each other, as though daring someone else to speak first. Even Mandy, who usually felt no need to be shy, looked rather uncomfortable, as though she'd prefer not to say anything at all. 

"Well?" he prompted, fixing an expectant gaze at Maxwell. He was the only Mediwizard in the group; perhaps he could save the witches the trouble.

"Healer Clearwater had been about to clock out when this one arrived," Maxwell said. "Asked a few questions and then came back out right after. Said she was really sorry she had to go but you should probably take care of it yourself."

Oh for the love of-- " _What_ is going on?" Terry asked. Everyone just looked back at each other. Mandy was chewing on the bottom of her lip. He'd seen her do it often enough to know she was trying very, very hard not to laugh. " _Tell me!_ "

"I think you really should just go see for yourself, Terry," she said finally.

"Fine," Terry said with a great big put-upon sigh, because honestly, what use were Mediwitches if they weren't at all being helpful?

The stroll down the third floor wing wasn't easy. Being the only major hospital in all of wizarding London, St. Mungo's took in a rather large number of patients per day, with magical injuries and maladies that normally took days, if not longer, to cure. The building itself was sequestered in a tight portion of land near downtown London, but it had been charmed to accommodate more than five times its expected Muggle capacity. Every other week, it seemed, was another week to add another ward here or a new room there. As a result, its occupants often found themselves walking through a veritable maze of corridors and out-of-the-way back alleys just to reach a specific patient. (It helped with illicit liaisons, but not much else.)

Getting to 305W was, therefore, no simple task. Apparating only helped him too once he'd become truly familiar with the place, but 305W was one of the newer additions. It was a single room, he realized upon nearing it, usually reserved for either the contagious or the grievously ill. He frowned.

"Michael?" he called out, knocking quickly before he opened the door. "It's Terry; I'll be your Healer today and I wanted to know--"

But the rest of the words died on his lips. There Michael lay, above the standard-issue white sheets of the hospital, in the gowns of those admitted in. His legs were covered in bright splotches of purple, and just beneath his gown, where Terry was sure he _shouldn't_ ever be seeing _anything_ that hinted at his friend's nocturnal activities, pulsed a rather large blob of warty, purple-y, gelatinous _matter_. "Hi, Ter," Michael said, cheeks pink and tone sheepish.

The boy had always been--there was a word that Terry wanted to use, but it didn't seem a word he should ever use in relation to a friend--adventurous. Wore his heart on his sleeve, dove in headfirst into affection. Or attraction. Or lust. To put it lightly, the Hat had Sorted him into Ravenclaw because he used his head quite a lot, and the joke amongst his Housemates was that the Hat had gotten a look inside Michael's _other_ head, perhaps. "What happened?"

"I thought I'd been given gillyweed."

"Gillyweed. Dare I even ask?"

Michael shook his head. "Except," he said, and oh did Terry dread hearing the rest of his words, "did you know Disney had it _completely_ wrong? Merpeople don't actually like it much when you try to whisk their daughters away to strange new lands and make them part of our world."

**Author's Note:**

> Please consider donating to local organizations who support trans individuals in your area.


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